All language subtitles for Ripper Street S03E08 The Peace of Edmund Reid.DVDRip.NonHI.en.BBC

For all our days are
passed away in thy wrath.

And we spend our
years as a tale that is told.

Follow the bonds.

Forgive me.

The chances of any
two prints being alike are

one in sixty four billion.

I am pregnant and unmarried.

What is this?

Theodore Swift is my business.

Where, oh, where
might he find safe haven?

But, of course.

Father.

I stay to bring all
to its conclusion.

Inspector Reid, explain
to me once again

how it is you consider
yourself fit for purpose.

I have headaches, Mr. Abberline.

What else do you
wish me to say to you?

Perhaps that you
understand for why

you suffer such affliction?

No?

Allow me, therefore.

A man shot you in it.

Warrant card, now.

Your preparations
are made, are they,

for Bournemouth?

They are not my preparations.

But yes, they are made.

And you would have
me invalided away

from here before
your journey south?

I would.

Do you recall, Fred,

the night we were
called to Miller's Court,

to attend the remains
of Miss. Kelly?

You believe I will ever forget?

This was your chair.

That was your brandy

and we drank in the
hope that those remains,

the hard edges of those images
stamped into our minds, that they...

they might somehow be dulled.

But there is
nothing can dull it.

Not brandy. Not Bournemouth.

We spoke that night, of how...

having seen his
acts in such detail...

of how we knew them

as though they
belonged to us ourselves.

How, therefore, we felt that

if only we might lay
our eyes upon him,

that then we
would without proof,

without witnessing, without
any evidence of any kind,

we might look into him,

and simply know him.

What, Edmund?

Do you say that you have
found Jack the Ripper?

No, Fred.

But there is another circle
I now see coiled about me.

Another snake set
to swallow its tail.

Yet another Whitechapel evil whose
scheme has yet to be determined.

And that knowing,
Chief Inspector...

the knowing
certainty of purpose.

It slides into view.

This day, the next, it comes.

And then...

and then this work
will be rid of me,

once and for all.

Came over with
the cattle, Mr. Best.

Not on the passenger
line, Mr. Ackerman?

Passengers get watched.
Livestock does not.

And I'm grateful to you, sir.

For what you have uncovered.

You're a credit to us,
to all we newspapermen.

Well, I am flattered, I'm sure.

But Mr. Ackerman,

you did not bunk
down with the heifers

all the way to London
just so you might

give me the glad hand.

I need your proof.

And I yours, sir.

I do not feed you
information for gratis.

You were to provide in kind.

Think I'd carry it out
to dinner with a man

I have never met, do you?

Trust must be earned, Mr. Best.

Those we chase, you and I.

This monster Swift.

He saw this done to me.

The money he hid,

the funds for which you
searched but could not find, sir.

Their journey to this
city brought death with it.

Fifty-five. Man,
woman and child.

Amongst that
number, one I loved.

Now, you doubt my
commitment one more time,

I shall take what I have
and go to print alone.

The thing itself, in good time.

And for now...

a sample.

Those soldiers' tunics are
red, if you have my meaning.

And their deaths
relate to all you would

now elaborate upon.

Something else for
you too, Mr. Best.

Its purpose will get clear,

but for now I entrust it
to you for safekeeping.

Until we next meet, however,
you heed some advice.

You go now to
your place of work,

you take what you need
and you do not return.

You do not take a step
without that you do so in caution.

Fear is your friend, Mr. Best.

Fear keeps us alive.

I'll send for you again once a
place of greater safety is found.

Have you seen him?

No, sir.

If you see him you
come and find me.

I'll tell ya!

Look at me!

London.

A city that is known
to you, Mr. Ackerman.

You remove the Englishmen,
it is not a city without appeal.

But here's a thing.

For reasons no
doctor is yet to clarify,

I disembark here

and my bile rises.

I get the heartburn,
Mr. Ackerman.

The fucking death of me.

Which should tell you something.

You think yourself
a plague to me?

The reason I am run
out of North America?

You are not.

I expand my empire.
Residing here suits my needs.

I worry more after
the fucking heartburn

than I do after you.

So, to business.

I cannot think you
come here without

encouragement in
one form or another.

Without assistance
from some other prick.

No, there's no one.

Ah! No! Stop it!

Stop, please! Stop!

And so, the encouragement...

who promises it?

Tell me who and I
won't have you killed.

His name's Best.

Fred Best of The Star.

Oh, God...

Thank you, Mr. Ackerman.

Jesus Christ, Caitlin.
Did you really?

Jackson!

Jackson!

Open this bloody door!

What?

Fresh corpse arrived.
American, I am told.

Let's hope it catching.

His name is Ackerman,
sir. Ralph Ackerman.

Reporter, resident
of New York City.

Pages torn from his
notebook, but all else intact.

His hands were roped
whilst he was tortured.

And then, the coup de
grace betwixt his eyes.

Did he give them the
answers they sought, therefore?

Grace, hotels, boarding houses?

No record of him, Mr. Reid.

But here... left luggage
stub in his billfold.

It is not a large case
and only a few items.

He did not mean to
remain with us long.

Tell him what else, Constable.

Sir. He was seen.

Rubenstein's.

An early supper
taken in the company

of one who is well
recognized in these parts.

Another hacker.

Fred Best.

Continue your work, Captain.

Mr. Grace. Get yourself
to the Royal Exchange,

the Reuter office within.

Every piece of reportage our
Mr. Ackerman has produced

within two years, say.

Inspector Drake,

it is an old habit. Let us go
call on Mr. Best once more.

Ransacked, abandoned.

What of Best?

Do we imagine they
found what they hunted for?

The man himself or
something he made.

Whichever.

We must assume that whatever

investigation saw
the errant New Yorker

Mr. Ackerman's brains put out...

our Mr. Best is set on the same.

There is a view down
the street as I asked?

Our finest, sir.

Hm, let us hope so.

Where is it you
take me, Theodore?

Do you not think I
have matters to attend?

We go somewhere a lesson
might most practically be learned.

"And what lesson
is that, Theodore?"

A lesson, my darling girl,

to demonstrate just what the
future of Whitechapel will be,

now you and I have reconciled.

This way, sweetheart.

Where are they?

Where are the men?

All in good time.

This Obsidian.

You think to make it
an engine for good,

but you forget who you are.

Think of what energy and
resources you have expended

toward the
betterment of this world

and yet your single
most notable achievement

remains this, the death
of 55 human beings.

Now, this is what
will happen here.

Your workers are sent home,

and this flattened
land is repossessed

for an altogether
grander scheme.

Remember just what
choices you have.

It is my way or the
rope, daughter-mine.

Miss. Hart.

I was told to find
you here, but...

where are the men?

Development is shut down, Jane.

I am sorry?

The development is shut down.

Why?

Why shut down?

It is too costly.

And it will change not a thing.

No, madam!

This is a dream,
some nightmare of ruin!

It is too costly.

And it will change not a thing.

Gazettes, Chronicles,
Heralds and Sentinels,

many periodicals
and but one theme:

the corruption of the powerful
governments and corporations.

And one man, one
business the seeming focus

of his most recent articles.

A man named Swift,

a shipping concern
named Swiftline.

A case was even brought about
as a result of his investigating.

A congressional inquiry

after Mr. Ackerman alleged
that Mr. Swift himself gave order

for a troop of Pinkertons
to fire on the picket line,

which he, Mr. Swift, had
engaged them to break.

Now, do we think Mr. Best,
a hacker from The Star,

do we imagine that
he has joined him

in his campaign
against the man, Swift?

Constable Grace,
Wilkins up at the Ace,

he reports a man with
a china ear booking in.

Fetch yourself
there, son, pronto.

Man named Ackerman known to you?

Someone shot him in the head.

It's time we were
elsewhere, Best.

Ackerman. Theodore
Swift. Everything you have.

Now. Or the next man
you see will be Reid.

Indeed, Captain?

What, you will take
me to him and listen

as I draw a direct line between
the slaughter of the fifty-five

and your wife?

Else why did you save me
from those men of H Division?

Could it be that though
you are long estranged,

you still feel the keen
urge to shield your wife

from all which might
mean her harm?

From the wrath of your
Leman Street colleagues...

All right, Best.

Your point's made.

But I mean to know.

Those are British soldiers.

The Royal Niger
Company, I believe.

We had corresponded
for some weeks, he and I.

He had looked
but failed to find...

how Swift was
relocating his fortune.

And so you showed him.

And demanded your
quid pro quo in return.

We agreed Swift must
be here in London.

Mr. Ackerman travelled
to join us, bringing,

he assured me...

the discovered proof of
just what purpose that man,

his shipping line, and his newly
relocated fortune were now set.

Do you know what this is?

It's a Stanhope.

It is for seeing things
that might otherwise...

not be seen.

Lunch, Sawbones.

And I have a hunger
on me, I tell you.

Oh. Who are you?

Her manners are normally better.

Mr. Best, Miss. Morton.

Listen to me,
darling, I need a favor.

One hour is all I ask.

Only sit with him, make
sure he goes nowhere.

Is he as disagreeable
as he looks?

No.

He is a good fellow.

One hour.

Lunch, Mr. Best?

It's gotta be somewhere.

Where is it, Mr. Ackerman?

Where do you have it hid?

Not a name we have heard
in some years, Mr. Drake.

No, Mr. Reid.

Fred Best fleeing him,
eager to avoid ourselves also,

so it would seem.

This... his own bonded
workers shot in protest.

Were his culpability proved,

he would face
criminal indictment

and with that a jail term.

His assets stripped
from him in damages.

Quite so, Inspector. So...

facing such a fate,
the removal from him

of his assiduously
built fortune...

does he perhaps
choose to ship it

to an altogether
friendlier city?

It must be shipped
in secret, however.

And changed up
also into a currency

which bears no
sign of his owner.

Unregistered securities.

Bearer bonds.

Shipped via anonymous
sea-cans for London.

Sea-cans which are
loaded aboard goods trains.

Good trains which then
might then be robbed.

At gunpoint on the
tracks of Whitechapel.

Do you not see it, Sir?

See her, the good Lady Hart.

She is held to have
saved you, I know this.

But the chances,
the happenstance,

it is too great.

That money which her man
Capshaw plotted to thieve,

it is her father's money.

Swift money.

And we are to tell ourselves

she knew not one detail of
that plotting to rob that train?

Now... do we go up there, sir?

Ask her direct?

Yes, Bennet. I imagine we do.

Make haste!

Cellar to attic.

Cash and bearer bonds.
Pull the place apart.

Well, now... Mr. Drake.

I knew it would not be long

before we were
to be reacquainted.

Riggs, Henderson,
Matthews, the upper floors.

See them ransacked,
thorough-like.

At your service Mr. Drake.

And you, Inspector Reid,

are we not to have a fond
word of remembrance?

In due course, Mr. Swift.

I feel sure of it.

He will fall. Help him.

Water. Bring it.

Madam.

There are those who would have
me drag you to my cells by your ankles.

And yet it seems that I
am in your debt once more.

There is no debt
between friends, Inspector.

Since the moment those
engines fell into our world

we have asked ourselves

why it is that none
have come forward

to claim they were robbed.

And here, you,

your father returned,

the answer suddenly so simple.

I wonder...

are you ready to
make the report, sir?

A man cannot
report a burglarizing,

if he has not been burglarized.

And I have not.

Explain your presence
here in London, Mr. Swift.

I visit my family.

Nothing, Inspector. Not a bean.

Save the safe in the wall, sir.

Miss. Hart.

You will open your strongbox.

You think yourself
absolved, do you?

You are not.

I see you, Long Susan.

Dark and sharp as a
midsummer shadow.

Your lies. Your
blood-blackened heart.

I see you.

But you cannot show the
world what you see, can you, sir?

- Constable Grace.
- Mr. Reid.

Go now. Fetch two
carpenters. Two masons also.

And when you have
see that they then remove

every floorboard

and cut every stone where
that money might be hid.

Yes, sir.

You send for me, Amelia?

Not I. He.

How is he, the old man?

He will see us all
into the ground.

How much has he
told you, Caitlin?

Has he told you just
what business it is

that he establishes
for himself here?

Nothing that man could
do would surprise me.

Then why do you allow
him to kick back here?

What does he have
over you, darling?

I really need to tell you?

I think you do, Caitlin.

By way of example...

have you told him yet
how you shot Reid?

I'm glad that you don't
attempt to deny it, Caitlin.

How did you do it, Matthew?

How did you discover me?

Doesn't matter how I did it.

How did you do it?

It was a choice.

A decision.

As with all in this life.
A right turn, a left turn.

You either choose, or you
allow others to choose for you.

And now you will
simply just allow yourself

to be folded back into
your father's life once more?

I will not. But that
depends on you, Matthew,

on your choice.

I won't lie for you.

Not on this.

You will not protect me...

as you once swore
such ardent oath to do?

No?

Then perhaps you
will protect your child.

The night before I shot Reid.

We two were like
hot and wanton dogs

in a Whitechapel gutter.

A child is a new thing.

It might make us new alongside.

Choose, Matthew.

- Where is he?
- Gone.

He would not be stopped.

Gone! Gone where?

He spoke only of going to print.

That clown is
going the right way

towards getting himself dead.

Then perhaps he would
be considerate enough

to show you that road also.

He is quite the
fountain of knowledge,

your Mr. Best.

Not a soul hereabout
whose stories

he doesn't have cached
away, somewhere.

You, for example...

Matthew.

Now, I never hid that.

I gave you my name.

But not your story.

I didn't have you pegged
as judgmental, Hermione.

I am not.

But I know when I am
become an option for a man,

rather than his priority.

And I am nothing if not
demanding in that regard.

It is after her well-being that
you now chase around, is it not?

Your Caitlin?

She is pregnant.

Captain Homer Jackson,
there was a future for you.

And in its stead
you chose the past.

Mr. Reid, he...

he cannot continue
as he is. He cannot...

police with the
hurt he now carries,

and so Abberline insists
I now take his place.

Take his place or
copper no more.

How does that notion
now sit with you?

Now that you and I are...

well, that we shall be together.

If I have you beside me, Rose

that chair, it would hold
no fears for me no more.

I should get back.

I know.

I shall be here for
you later, however.

I know that also.

Watch your grinning if
you see Miss. Morton.

She and the Captain...

no longer, it seems.

What did he do?

Miss. Susan, apparently.

Rose...

will you tell me what
Miss. Morton said?

She said he left her to wait in
his rooms with Fred Best and...

With who?

Jackson!

Mr. Ackerman,
what did he give you?

Oh, do you mean
amorously, Mr. Swift?

Or by way of disease?

You are a spry fellow
are you not, Mr. Best?

Springing from one man's
pillar to another's post.

See this mandrake, this
prick-smuggler, may dance no more.

No, no...

Oh, no, please! Please. I
will, I will speak, I will speak.

You see, darling?

He is not such an
unreasonable fellow.

The floor is yours, Mr. Best.

Let us end this
dance now, shall we?

I know what
Ackerman did not know.

Not 'til I told him.

I know that your money,
that all of your money

was shipped here as bearer
bonds to be cached away

from those that would
bring you to heel.

I know that she, your daughter,

that she saw a tranche
robbed from you.

You shared this information
with Mr. Ackerman?

And in return, Mr. Best...

what did he give you?

What did he pass you
in that kike cook shop?

I don't know, there was no time.

He was not able.

After all that effort. I do
not believe you, Mr. Best.

I am, however... of
a mind to show you.

This is a British gun.

Built for the conquest
of all those who would

stand in Britain's way.

Well, I am buying them now.

And selling them too...

to all those...

who would see such weaponry
turned back on its creator.

Myself, my shipping lines...

we shall prove an
effective quartermaster.

But, why would you tell me...

this, if you...

If I do not mean to kill you?

Well, who can tell?

Perhaps I am vainglorious.

But, see...

I shall certainly kill you

if you do not speak of
who else you have shared

your hard-won knowledge with.

I shall tell you.

Only spare me.

Tell me.

And we shall see about that.

Oh, I have told
multitudes, Mr. Swift.

I have told bin-rakers,
I have told sweeps,

I have told every
street-arab and mudlark

from the Thames
to the Old Nichol,

from the City Gates
to the Old Ford...

coal-whippers, lumpers,
watermen, coachmen, chars,

flower-girls, trotter-scrapers.

I have whispered
it in their ears,

I have howled it
across tap rooms.

And what is it you
have told them?

Oh, what indeed?

I shall tell you what
Fred Best in his love,

in his benediction for
each and every soul

who must scrape
and connive their way

through this benighted
part of the world.

This is what he told them:

That Mr. Theodore
Patrick Swift...

longs for nothing
more in his life...

than a proud cock in one hole

whilst he suckles from
another in the other.

You know, Mr. Best,

I have not killed a
man in nigh on 15 years!

No, Theodore! No!

Sometimes Pa says with a frown

Soon you'll have to settle down

Have to wear your wedding gown

Be the strictest wife in town

Well, it must come by and by

When wed, to keep quiet I'll try

But till then I shall not sigh

I shall still go in for my...

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!

Très magnifique!

Bravo! Bravo!

I wouldn't be here
if it wasn't urgent.

But Drake. I need to find Drake.

- Best has disappeared.
- He is not here, Captain.

Superb, superb!
Mademoiselle Erskine.

Delighted to welcome
you, sir. Bon soir.

- Bennet!
- Enchanté, mademoiselle. Enchanté.

See now, Captain, he comes.

Drake. Listen to me.

You must hear me.

Must I?

Then it needs be outside, renegade,
for I will not mar this night here.

Renegade? Why is it you
must forever seek to curse me?

I found what you hide and
know you conspire against us.

Aw, shit.

- You come here!
- Drake, you don't understand.

It's Swift!

- Theodore Swift.
- I knew it!

Let me explain!

Bennet! Bennet! Bennet!

Drake, I know what he's doing...

You, Captain. Arrested.

Under what charge is this
man arrested, Inspector Drake?

Obstruction of justice!

The case?

Attempted murder.

Whose?

Yours, Mr. Reid.

Ask him, sir. Ask
him who he protects!

I am not sure I need to.

For now there are other
priorities currently upon us.

With me, gentlemen.

Oh, Jesus.

Jesus, Best!

- It is Swift.
- You know this how?

You see the geometry
of the ballistics here?

There's not many
weapons, but one.

The Maxim machine gun.

The new weapon of choice
for our imperial forces.

No longer just that.

Drake, the belongings
you took from my rooms,

may I have them?

Please?

You both will want to see this.

You know what this
is, don't you, Reid?

Yes. It is a Stanhope.

A magnifying
device. Very powerful.

It enables the viewing
of microphotographs.

There is a cargo manifest also.

It records Swifts shipments.

From which he supplies
anti-imperialist forces worldwide.

Anti-British to the Niger,
anti-French to North Africa,

anti-U.S. to the Philippines.

These weapons are
stockpiled here in East London

and sold to
whoever bids highest,

or to whom might
point such weapons

at whoever it is he disdains.

My father-in-law
trades in death now.

And he chooses Whitechapel
as his command center.

Well, can we take him?
Can we tie him to these?

By motive, but there's
nothing physical I can see.

Then we require an informant,
someone who might speak against him.

What he accuses
you of, it is true?

It is.

Go on.

It is Susan's thumbprint...

on the gun that shot you.

You removed it?

You matched it?

I think I must go speak to
her, see if such a proving

may bring her to our cause.

You do not ask how or for why.

But it is yours.

A fund for the clinic.

This, more important.

Miss. Susan.

This...

Why would you abandon us?

It is not an abandoning.

It is only your sovereignty.

Yours, Dr. Frayn.

Good morning, Miss. Susan.

Good morning, Mathilda.

I am astonished, Madam,
that you would come here, now.

Might we speak?

Please, Jane?

For earlier I am so, so sorry.

For much else
besides. But I hope...

this...

it removes the tenement lands

from the title of Obsidian
and transfers it to yours.

Please, Jane, will you listen?

Where I have failed,
you must now succeed.

Do you understand?

Goodbye, Mathilda.

Goodbye, Miss. Susan.

Be good for your father.

I let myself in. Your girl...

I have sent her away.

And your father?

He now takes up the
suite at The Athenaeum.

I cannot let you leave, Madam.

Your surgeon has told you, then.

Not by his own choosing.

He was discovered
and Inspector Drake...

has a way of
extracting the truth.

Please, Inspector.

Do not perform a dance for him.

No dance.

Your Mr. Judge,

so long as I have known him
his actions have had many a root.

But a black heart is not one.

A black heart?

If only it were so simple.

You might hunt out
villainy with ease,

fill your cells,

and allow the good people of this
earth to walk forever unmolested.

There are times, however,

when it is perhaps
as simple as all that.

One looks at another
man and knows...

that he is for naught
but iniquity in this world.

In many ways it is a
gift to be shown such.

A gift we should not
run from, but welcome.

My life, Miss. Susan,
a policeman's life,

we look for pattern...

to show us our
path. Pattern, form,

a design.

And so here, I
offer you one such:

You and your Mr. Capshaw set
men to thieve from your father.

The cataclysm that ensued...

sees Mr. Buckley and his wife...

bankrupted. And
in that bankrupting,

Obsidian Estates
absorbs their shop...

and so reveals the
discovery of all that lay within.

My daughter.

Pattern.

But design, Inspector?

Whose?

Who can say?

But was it mere accident

that saw neither of
your shots hit their mark?

It was my husband
taught me to shoot.

And I do not think him
inaccurate in his teaching.

Unless of course he
thought that one day

you might have
cause to shoot at him?

I wonder, do you...
Do you consider us

tragedians caught in some farce?

Because you, despite the
concessions you have made

to survive in this
world of ours, I know,

your intentions have
been for the benefit of all.

And yet one act damns me.

I take from a man,

my cruel father,

whose money is made on
nothing more than the blood

and toil of others,

and then I am drowned
in a tide of slaughter.

I think of nothing but
the protection of my world

from a man who...

ripped the sex and entrails
from five young women.

And in my fevered pursuit, my
eye is turned and my daughter...

lost.

Gone.

Until, your incidental
calamity by turns

brings her back to me.

It is as you say, Mr. Reid.

We are caught in the
teeth of some grotesque.

Damned if we do and
damned if we do not.

We might act now, however.

Wrest some measure of
control back to ourselves.

See good done.

Caitlin?

Why do you send for me?

She does not, Mr. Swift.

I do.

Police, Catie?

Have you lost yourself?

No, Theodore.

Quite the reverse.

Kill this copper
for me, will you?

Good day to you, Theodore.

You. You are finished.

Yes.

Mr. Swift, I expect I am.

You see, there's something I've
had too many occasions to learn

where a man such as
yourself is concerned.

The law cannot constrain you.

Too fucking right, policeman.

So, you drop this now,

or prepare for the wrath of
God to fall on your shoulders.

No. Because, you see,

this is the lesson.

Evil men need evil ends.

What is this, Caitlin?

We, the Inspector and I,

we wish to show you somewhere.

A place that has come
to mean much to us both.

A place where a
little girl was kept.

What is this place, Caitlin?

It is the belly of Whitechapel.

At your instruction, father,
work here is shut down.

There will not be a
soul through for weeks.

You make yourself at home, sir.

- You coming, Caitlin?
- One moment.

For the heartburn, father.

No. No!

Fuck you all. No.

This does not end this way.

Theodore Swift
does not end this way.

Then how, sir?

It is only the suicide
chooses their conclusion.

Caitlin!

Think of what you do.

I am blood. It is your
family you kill here.

No.

It is my family I keep safe.

What make of woman are you?

I'm your father, damn you!

I made you!

I made you!

Inspector. The fence from
the Wentworth Street hold-up.

A runner comes, sir.

Constable Grace
brings him to ground.

Yours, I believe,
Inspector Drake.

You make the choice.

I wish you well with it, Drake.

For better, or worse.

Right?

London will
remember him for this.

That he was the detective

who, alongside Detective
Inspector Frederick Abberline,

led the pursuit of the man

we at The Star named
"Jack The Ripper".

But whilst his streets
might, in the years since,

have found some
measure of recovery,

it is this obituarist's fear
that Edmund Reid did not.

I shall race you, my daddy.

If there is justice
where he now walks,

it might be that the care
which he wore so heavily

will be lifted from him.

Those who knew him,
those who did not...

those who may have
only seen him stride past

in pursuit of whatever
villainy beset him that day,

we might offer a prayer for him.

And this might be
our prayer for peace,

for his peace.

We, the children of the East...

of the docksides, highways,
rookeries and laneways,

we pray for the
peace of Edmund Reid.